


Shield Rock

by Doctor_Neverdie



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Defenders (Marvel TV), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Awesome Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton & Darcy Lewis Friendship, Deaf Clint Barton, F/M, James "Rhodey" Rhodes is a Good Bro, Jealous Harley Keener, Nick Fury Knows All, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parent Steve Rogers, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker is Tony Stark's Biological Child, Protective Steve Rogers, Protective Tony Stark, everyone is a parent basically
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-01-12 05:22:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21229001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doctor_Neverdie/pseuds/Doctor_Neverdie
Summary: Steve’s a sheriff suddenly thrust into the world of parenthood. Thor just wants the family drama to stop. Tony tries to raise his kids right. Nat wants love, but doesn’t know how to find it. Bruce is having a midlife crisis and Clint is the best. Other characters appear and take over the POV.Welcome to Shield Rock — gossip's rampant, competition can be ruthless, everyone knows everyone and if you break up with someone its either move out or put up. It’s a town way over its head but it’s got stories to tell. Big ones





	1. Welcome to Shield Rock

**Author's Note:**

> Hi y'all. So this is a story I wrote waaay back and posted on FF.net. That particular version has been abandoned since forever, so I rewrote this and posted it here. I'm sorry for messing up the tags, because I just felt lazy tagging everything. I hope for some feedback, and much love!

Chapter One: Welcome to Shield Rock

If there’s one thing Steve absolutely hates at the moment, it’s the alarm clock on his bedside desk, shrilling to the point he thinks his eardrums are gonna burst. His fist slams into it a couple of times before its incessant screams fade into nothingness. He sighs and lays back on the bed. The sun hasn’t yet fully peeked out of the horizon but he can pick up faint rays through his halfway open curtains. Another Monday.

Part of him wanted to lay in bed all day but dammit Steve, that shield’s not gonna go to work by itself. So he picks himself up lazily and goes to wash up. Nearly half an hour later, he’s locking the door to his house. He shivered and pulled the jacket closer to himself. September had just begun its second week and he was this cold. He wishes he’d eaten something before leaving but he’s got nothing in the fridge except Phil’s homemade dinners in Tupperware. The cupboards have gathered dust. Maybe he’s enjoying eating at Rosa’s a little too much.

When he pulls up to said place, the blue and red neon words ‘Silver Spoon' stare back at him blankly through his wet windshield. He recognizes Johnny’s bike in all its shiny glory in the lot beside him. The bell jingles and chimes when he crosses the threshold to the establishment, a chorus of “Morning, Cap!” arising from the diner’s occupants. He greets them back and slides onto the red bar stool at the very far end. The wall behind the counter is used up by posters, shelves filled with small electrical appliances, condiments and memorabilia. There's the familiar smell of food cooking and lemon refresher, the warm buzz of conversation.

“The usual?” Rosa Temple asks as she wipes the counter. She’s her in her usual blue dress and black apron. Her salt and pepper grey hair is tightly wound into a bun, spectacles immaculately placed on her face and wrinkle lines appearing as she smiles at him.

“Yes, ma’am.” He replied.

“With syrup?”

“Sure.”

She nodded and made the order in rapid Spanish to a young waitress. Steve looked around. Jasper Sitwell is sitting alone in the first booth in one of his signature navy blue suits. He puts down the Daily Bugle with an expression akin distaste forming on his face. Fixing his red tie for what must be the umpteenth time —Steve is sure, Jasper likes his ties— he mutters something inaudible. He works in the Mayor’s office so being neat is highly expected of him. The man catches his eye and waves, then returns to his bacon and eggs, newspaper forgotten.

Everett Ross is in the middle of what seems to be a strained debate with Kenneth Morita of Midtown High in the second booth. Was this about the state of decay that is befalling the firehouse, the change of funds or the new syllabus system? Steve would never know. However, what he does know is that Everett's Homemade Hot Pudding (Rosa’s special Monday special) has cooled and Morita's Eggs Benedict are now blue and soggy.

Erik Selvig is in the third booth, ignoring Darcy’s attempts in making small talk. His eyes are too busy roving over the '_Astrophysics: A Professional Insight_' paperback in his hands. The young woman pouts, says something which makes the man only snort in response and Miss Lewis lazily picks at her waffles. He notices she’s wearing her favorite tee, the one which reads ‘Guns ‘n’ Roses’. She always wears that one three times every week, without fail.

Behind them, Johnny Storm is flirting up a storm with who Steve assumes is a new waitress (he knows pretty much everybody this side of town, he should) as she fills his cup. She barely brushes off his advances and Rosa gives Johnny a good hard stare. He puts up his hands in surrender, mouthing ‘okay’ then quickly returning to his food.

A plate stacked high with pancakes drizzled with maple syrup, cream and blueberries is placed under his nose. A cup of black coffee follows, along with another plate of sausages, hash browns and poached eggs topped with homemade hollandaise sauce, with double chocolate brownies which are on the house.

“Rosa, you spoil me!” he says and is about to add more money on his bill when she stops him.

“Dessert is always free for you, Sheriff.” She winks and goes to serve another customer. Free or not, Rosa's brownies are legendary. He digs in enthusiastically. Steve’s hopes of eating quietly are crushed when Thor steps into the diner. The heavy tread of his footsteps and his booming voice are not that hard to recognize as he greets the patrons, kisses Rosa’s cheek, pats Jasper’s back so hard the man spits out a little of his breakfast and shakes Selvig's hand. Steve liked Thor. A lot. He was a friend. But today he didn’t really feel like socializing. He tried to make himself as small —as small as a six foot three man could manage— and as inconspicuous as possible but the Norwegian brute spotted him right away. Steve thinks his jacket is a dead giveaway. Maybe he should’ve worn a hat?

“Steve!” Thor booms and casually strolls towards him, settling on the empty stool beside the sheriff. It was a well known fact that nobody could escape Thor. A small conversation (in the man’s terminology) was at least an hour long. And no matter what you were talking about, he would always rope you into a night of drinking, the bill’s on him. It was also well known that 90% of the time, you couldn’t resist the offer; Thor was a literal golden retriever. Who drank way too much. It’s a wonder he hadn’t gotten liver failure as of now.

“Chilly isn’t it?” he asked happily — a little too happily.

Steve only grunts softly in reply as he effectively swallows a large piece of his pancake.

“Snow will fall early this year. An Americano if you please, Mrs. Temple,” he continues, “and a Grand Slam. I’m feeling golden today.”

“How’s Frey and Albion?” Steve asks for politeness's sake.

“Doctor Banner came early in the morning. They’ll be alright but we have to delay trucking.”

Thor worked on a ranch a little out of town. He had a great thing with animals; he should’ve been a vet. Rather, he dived headfirst into the family business of horse breeding. He was pretty good at it, too. He was also good at being good. He was like sunshine, warm and great but a little too overbearing at times, like when you wake up and bam! Its literally the first thing on your face. So you could say he had his life pretty much figured out, except the weird sibling rivalry he had with his brother. That conflict was… interesting to say the least and was the stuff of legend in the town’s lore.

“The bill, Mrs. Temple!” Jasper called out.

“I hear the courthouse isn’t being renovated?” Thor says loudly enough for Jasper to hear.

“Oh, Woodman’s handling that.”

“Woodman, is shit at doing stuff.” The newly arrived Clint Barton says in disdain. He’s in his uniform — tan shirt, black pants with his shield on the belt, a little bit of mud stuck on his boots.

“No politics in the morning; its unhealthy.” Erik puts in and slams his book shut. “Its Monday. Monday is for fresh starts and I’ll be damned if the first debate I hear is about politics.”

Clint only huffs in reply, then says, “I haven’t forgiven him for the shit he pulled with Foster. What a fucking mess that was.”

“Language,” Steve admonishes and swallows the rest of his coffee in one go. Clint sticks out his tongue at him.  
The sheriff pushes away the empty dishes from his person and stands up, tipping his head to the occupants. “Ladies, gents. Have a good day. Nice shirt, Barton.”

The ranger gives him the middle finger; he knows that wasn’t supposed to be a compliment.

Steve arrives at the station at exactly eight. He’s run three errands since leaving the Silver Spoon, including checking in on Turk Barrett who is in house arrest — again. Jessica is shoving someone in a cell, muttering under her breath. Once the guy is safely locked in, she huffs in annoyance and throws her coat on an empty chair.

“Busy day already?” he asks her.

“This early? Yeah. That dumbass broke into someone’s house and peed on the sofas. At six thirty in the fucking morning.” She loosens her almost threadbare woolen lavender scarf from her throat. “You know how much time I spent trying to take this meth-head’s mugshot? Half an hour. Fucktard.”

Detective Jessica Jones is a dark haired woman with a love for dark lipstick, black jackets, vodka, a cynical attitude and a critical eye for investigation. Most of the time, she says whatever she wants to say; her mouth simply has no filter. The only one able to keep a rein on her is fellow investigator Mercedes ‘Misty’ Knight.

“Well. You got him.” He tells her and makes his way to his office. Carol, the deputy sheriff, is already behind her desk and filling reports. She gives him a curt nod as a greeting and returns to work. She almost never says good morning, which she hates for some reason or the other. She’s good at her job though, gives people hell when its needed and someone he considers a friend.

There were two court orders and a warrant typed in on his desk. There was also that Hale vs Marshall case today at two in the afternoon, which he had already arranged bailiffs for though his presence was still required.  
Aside from that, there was pretty much nothing to do except for a signature here and there and one patrol. Steve loves his job, but there are times it becomes so mundane its unbelievable. This is the most assignments he’s seen all week. He sighs. He’s barely sat down when there is a sharp knock on the door and soon enough Carol’s blonde head pokes in. “There was a break in at the Town Hall. Mayor wants to see you, ASAP.”

Anything that requires the sheriff’s attention by the mayor is bad news. Especially to a Mayor like Col. Nicholas Joseph Fury. He’s a man who prefers to handle even the most inconvenient of things by himself. For his office to actually make a phone call is… terrifying. Steve puts on his jacket again and closes the door behind him. Finally, some action.  
The Town Hall isn’t far off from the station — just a few blocks away. He’s about to cross the intersection between Liberty Avenue and Central Road when he sees someone waving him over. If the classic silver Toyota with the slightly caved in door is any indication, the woman — he realizes this when he gets closer — is a newcomer.

“Hi, Officer. Thank God.” She’s perspiring a little despite the chilly weather, fingers nervously tapping the open hood of the car. She is dressed rather nicely in a grey pencil skirt and rose pastel blouse but her unbuttoned coat looks a few sizes too big for her petite frame. Blond hair is tied back into a bun, grey eyes darting here and there nervously.

“You see, my car just turned into a lemon and I have an appointment somewhere. And I got lost and this is embarrassing but I don’t know where to get car service and the cell reception here is bad—” realizing that he was staring at her, she blushed.  
"I'm babbling, aren't I?”

“You want to get there in time, while simultaneously making sure your vehicle is safe somewhere. I understand.” Steve finished for her. He leans closer and looks at the engine. She’d burst her gasket. Judging by the state the car’s in, he bets there’s more than that. He flipped out his phone, fingers automatically scrolling through his contacts.

“Where’s your appointment at?”

“The Daily Bugle.”

He grunted. “New York?”

“What?”

“You have a Queens accent.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Brooklyn. Staying the night or passing through? If you have any luggage you should better have it somewhere safe.”

“I hear there’s a place around here called The Sanctuary. Its not out of commission, is it?”

He didn’t get to answer. Mack’s big red tow truck pulled up behind them. The man stepped out, bald head shining, old blue overalls unbuttoned to reveal a crisp white tee underneath. He flashed gleaming pearly whites at them.

“Morning, Sheriff.”

“That was fast.”

“I was around the corner.” The two men shook hands  
.  
“Miss, this mountain of a man here is Mackenzie. He runs an auto shop, so your car’s in safe hands. Mack, Miss—” he waved over to the woman who snapped out of her brief tenure. She stuck out her hand to Mack.

“Its Page. Karen Page.” Steve could tell she was intimidated. Most people were. Despite his menacing looks, Alphonso Mackenzie was a gentle giant at heart.

“Miss Page needs a lift to Alarsi's and to the Bugle. And her sedan needs some fixing.”

Mack nodded. “Sure thing.”

“Thank you—I didn’t know what I was gonna do.” Miss Page looks genuinely grateful and Steve gives her a warm smile.

“Pleasure, ma’am.”

Karen nods and follows Mack (who has already attached a grappling hook to her sedan) to the truck.

“And Miss Page? Welcome to Shield Rock.”


	2. It's A Beautiful Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is such a boring chapter and that I took FOREVER to update this. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Also, there is a special cameo in this chapter *wink*. Did you spot it? It might require knowledge of the Marvel Netflix shows.

Chapter Two: It’s a Beautiful Day

The smell of eggs burning fills the tiny kitchen and Logan curses under his breath. He flips the omelet twice before delivering it to a clean plate, placing two slices of toast on top. He pushes the meal along with a glass of juice towards Laura, who is sullenly sitting on the counter with her arms crossed on the granite. She isn’t pouting. She isn’t one for that. But she’s mad. The ten year old looks at it for a moment (either in disgust or disbelief, Logan doesn’t know) before grabbing a fork lazily.

_Picky, aren’t we_? He thinks but doesn’t say anything. He’s said enough in the last hour and its enough words to last him a day. He wonders why their mornings have to start with lots of yelling, sighing and grumbling. Is it because Laura is constantly trying to be a pain in the ass or the fact that he’s a bad dad? He knows the answer to that all too well. He retreats to looking out of the window, tracing the rim of his mug with a scarred thumb.

A wheelbarrow haphazardly lies on its side, brown and red against the poorly mowed grass. Patches of flowers have grown here and there. Its not like anybody will comment on it — incurring his wrath is a no-no and besides, its in the middle of nowhere, where he and Laura live. There’s nothing but trees, a creek here or there, and more trees. The cabin stands out like a sore thumb, a dot in a badly cleared field. He adores it. She hates it (and hates him, too). Its far from car fumes, bright lights, noise — not that there’s much noise in Shield Rock; everything is quiet by nine — and last but not least, far from people. Works for him.

Clint says she may be lonely with no friends out here in the wilderness, but Logan always reminds him that he and his family live in the middle of nowhere, too. To top it off, Laura has seemingly inherited a trait he’s not proud of — the level of antisocial in the girl exceeds his own. Besides, he can’t afford to live in town and hey, beggars can’t be choosers.

The sound of fork scrapping against plate stops his train of thoughts. He drains the rest of his tea (he preferred a beer for breakfast but he’s been clean for four years straight and has to be responsible lest CPS comes knocking on his door) and takes the plate and glass from her.

“Go take your bag. Two minutes.” He tells her, a little too sternly perhaps. She fixes him a stare and stomps off. He knows he’s hurt her feelings and he can’t help but internally wince. He doesn’t even try to ask her how the omelet was. She’d probably say it tastes like horse shit.

Two minutes later and she’s on the steps, putting another pair of shoes on. The previous ones hurt her, she claims. Logan looks at her and shrugs, leaning on the column on the porch. He can’t help but stare some more at the unbelievably slow speed she’s tying those sneakers, or how identical she is to her mother, or the birthmark at the nape of her neck which he shares with her. His fingers run over his belt buckle when she announces she’s done.

Its quiet in the car. Only the engine’s purr and the sound of ‘Brandy, You’re a Fine Girl' on the radio makes it seem less uncomfortable. Rain is splattering on the windows and windshield. Logan checks himself. He’s asked all the mandatory questions. Have you done your homework? Do you have all your books? Your pencil case? Your lunch? Is someone in school giving you trouble?

God, he wants her to say something to him outside of the answers to his questions but that will never happen. Its always the same arguments, the same silence, the same conversations.

They’re stuck in this limbo where they relive the previous day with only the calendar, Logan’s graying hair, Laura’s growing height and the seasons to show that time has passed. He’s the father. She’s the daughter. He cooks for her, makes sure she sleeps on time, checks on her studies, gives her all necessities and protects her. He is (for the first time in his life) trying to be a functional adult. She understands somewhat but he thinks she still hates him. And that hurts (yes, he’s confessed).

When he drops her off at school, she quickly grabs her bag and walks off, not bothering to respond to his ‘See you later, kid!’. He tries not to be wounded. Keyword being ‘tries’. So there’s his morning. _So fucking peachy_.

Clint is talking to Nebula with hands on his hips when he pulls up at the outpost. The man’s face is crumpled in dismay, lips stretched in a thin line. Logan loudly slams the door shut and the blond man gives him a frown. Clint is half deaf but that’s not the point Logan’s trying to make.

“What’s given Caw-caw over here such a long face?” he asks the redheaded woman.

"Morning to you too, Howlett." Clint sniffed.

Nebula fixes her hazel eyes on him. She’s fun sized, with an athlete’s body and permanently stern features. Three parallel scars run from below her right eye and to her jaw and as far down as her neck. They do not make her ugly. She wouldn’t be her if she didn’t have them. Nor had they hindered her progress as the town’s fiercest woman in ranger uniform.

He would’ve asked her about her left prosthetic leg, or her slightly bad arm, but she would shoot him and dump his body in a ravine. She didn’t like pity. Or concern. So Logan clamped his mouth shut.

“Taserface,” she says simply. He sees that she's cut her hair short again. It looks good.

“Why the actual fuck can’t Nova keep an eye on their men?” he wonders aloud and Clint stares at him again.

“Beats me,” the blond says with a shrug.

“What’s shit-face done now?”

“Young grizzly. Took the claws.”

He has half a mind to snap the bastard's neck. “Evidence?”

“Plenty,” answers Nebula.

“Warrant already signed,” Clint continues and the trio stands in silence before he says, “Foster is going to kill us.”

The Shield Rock Ranger Force is massively understaffed as it is and they can’t be everywhere, but Taser is another case entirely. He can’t wait to see how Yondu is going to bail him out this time. Hunting in the reserve is strictly prohibited.

“Well, I got a patrol out west. I’ll see you fellas at the _Coffee Bean_, four sharp.” With that, Clint sets off.

“Is there a bright side to all of this?” Logan asks again. She smiles thinly.

“Actually…”

And it’s a beautiful day from then on.

_-Line Break-_

Natasha taps her finger against the desk. The old smell of dusty books threatens to make her sneeze. Somewhere behind her, papers are being shuffled. There’s a short cough, and a few murmurs of disagreement. The college kids on her left whisper furiously to each other. Other than that, it is quiet in the library. She wonders how long she will have to wait. Finally, an old man in a green cashmere sweater and khaki pants makes his way back to her, a heavy book tucked under his arm. His white hair is slicked back, large glasses atop his long nose.

“Had to get this old lady from the basement,” he says to her chirpily. The book is a sight. It looks like it hasn’t been opened in a century.

“Thank you, Mr. Flushing.”

“No problem, Nat.”

She wipes his mustard-coated mustache with her kerchief. He grimaces and says, “I always tell her not too much of that stuff!”

She laughs. “Well, the perks of being married, I guess.”

“Yes. What ‘bout you, sweetheart? You should ask him out, sometime.”

“Who, Mr. Flushing?” she asks innocently. She knows damn well who.

He waves her off. “You better get on to work. Make us proud, Romanoff. Nail that son of a bitch to a cross, you hear?”

Natasha wraps up the tome in thick brown paper and smiles. “Well, wish me luck.”

Minutes later, she is waiting for her order to pull through at the _Coffee Bean_. There aren’t that many people — most she recognizes but can’t put a name to, except for the barista behind the counter, the one with the purple tinted hair on one side of her head. Rogue, was it? There’s bags under her eyes but she nods away at orders anyway.

“Two frappes, one macciato and one cappuccino for Black Widow.” People look up in curiosity as Natasha walks past them to get her coffee. She ignores them, thanks ‘Rogue’ and makes her way out of the shop. She gives passing glances towards everything around her as she slowly walks to her block.

Its still pretty early. A few people wave at her and she nods in response. Her friend Wanda has already opened up shop. Robbie the firefighter is helping someone with their car. Kraglin the barber is arguing with Taser-what's-his-name across the street, the lumberman’s large truck with the fading NLC logo parked on the curb blocking her way. She sidesteps the vehicle and balances the coffee, book and her handbag as she tries to open the door. The plaque besides her reads ‘Nelson, Romanoff & Murdock'. It’s nice, and half the price it’s worth.

They have a tiny waiting area — a makeshift lobby in all honesty — where Bobbi, their secretary, sits and entertains their clients on busy days. Next to the lobby is the equally tiny kitchen. It suits the firm’s needs and badly needs restocking. And replacements for the cups that brunet kid broke yesterday. To the right in the narrow hallway is the office, followed by the closet where they keep cleaning supplies. The left is all window and a door which serves as an exit— not that there’s anything to see but an alley where a bike will occasionally pass. At the end of the hallway are the two washrooms, their doors pretty close to each other.

Its dark in the office. She sets her things down and grabs some tissues to wipe her table. Once that is done, she pulls up the blinds, shielding her eyes against the sudden brightness. Well, rise and shine. And she’s earliest, again. She unceremoniously plops down on the rollie chair and spins. A motorcycle races past the window. She logs in her computer, checking her schedule. An appointment here and there, a free brunch hour and a court in session, which will likely last until the wee hours of the evening. She has all her fingers crossed for this. The accused stands no chance between Matt and her.

A minute later, Foggy steps inside, fumbling with his briefcase, file and brown paper bag which Natasha strongly suspects contains donuts.

“Morning,” he grumbles and closes the door with his foot.

“Ahoy,” she replies.

“How was your evening yesterday?”

“Slept like a baby,” She told him with a smile.

“You got everything for today?”

“Matt and I are going to be fine, Franklin.”

“Sure, sure. I wasn’t doubting your skills. Just jittery nerves, I guess. Did you call René, by the way?” Foggy asks and hands her a donut; _Boston Cream_. Her favorite.

“Yeah. She’s pretty shaken up, but we’ll make sure she gets her rights.”

René Marshall, soon to be Hale, was their client. A victim of domestic abuse, she finally got the guts to seek help when her ‘husband’ of ten years tried to harm their kids. She sought _Nelson & Murdock_. Not that there was any other law firm in town, except _Silver & Stern_, and only rich people could afford that. Soon after, a murder attempt left her mother's house (where she'd been staying for the time being) in ashes but luckily nobody was seriously hurt except for her daughter who now had a broken leg to nurse back to health. If any man had done that to her, he’d been living without a dick right now.

“Did you ever dream of cracking the big cases instead of living in a town barely big enough for personal space?” Foggy asks again.

“Yeah. Used to dream of it and live it, too.”

“You know Matt and I—”

“—used to work in New York City, sent some hotshot mob boss to jail and after several attempts at your life you moved to Maine. Yeah. This is the 700th time you’ve told me this, Foggy.” She said to him, not unkindly.

“My mom wanted me to be a butcher,” he says, playing with his tie. “every time she goes like, ‘Is it nice up there? Do they eat enough meat?’.”

Silence.

“You miss her, don’t you?"

“Yeah. I think I'll spend this Christmas with her.”

“That’s good,” she tells him. She takes the last bite of her donut and looks outside again. It looks like a beautiful day.


	3. Reins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another Chapter, yay!

The Sanctuary is well-kept and has a homely feel to it, with its dark wood furnishings and light wallpapers. She spots some bonsai trees. The woman behind the oak counter looks up when Karen approaches, her black magenta tinted hair tied into a high ponytail. ‘_Gamora Alar__si’_ the plaque reads. She is quite beautiful, her chocolate skin goes well with the spaghetti-strap green blouse she’s wearing. There’s a certain fierceness in her dark eyes that tells Karen she shouldn’t waste time stating her business — this is a woman who’s got shit to do. So she does.

Its small － her apartment － with a tiny living room (if you could even call it that), a kitchenette with fully functional stove and microwave, a bathroom and a bedroom partitioned off by a thin wall. There's a little balcony in the bedroom where the only thing to see are spruce trees and a backyard lane. She immediately falls in love with it and pays for rent in cash covering a period of three months. Its less the price she thought it would be and she isn’t complaining.

When she’s done with that, she runs back to Mack’s truck where he'd been patiently waiting for her, God bless him. She stutters an apology, he brushes it off and makes it his business to drop her off at the newspaper on record time. He does. She's eternally grateful to him as he gives her the auto-shop's address. He smiles, nods and drives off with her beat-up car in tow, pun intended.

Karen looks up the three story building before her. The words ‘Daily Bugle' are large and white against the brown brick. She wastes no time outside and quickly enters the establishment. The abrupt chatter of voices immediately stops as soon as she steps in the door. Four pairs of eyes scrutinize her, avert their gaze and the chaotic disposition resumes in the surprisingly small lobby. A heavyset woman behind the desk is furiously typing, the keyboard keys making harsh clicking sounds as she continues with her task.

“Hello. I’m Karen Page and I have an appointment right about now with the Chief Editor, Mr. J. Jonah Jameson?”

The woman peers up from the computer, blue eyes squinting. “You’re the New York lady.”

The statement is flat and before Karen answers, the receptionist waves a hand towards the stairs behind her, red lacquered nails shining in the sunlight. “Third floor. Can’t miss his office.”

The blond woman nods and sets off. As soon as she reaches said floor, the world’s most scornful voice roars, “Where in the fuckety fuck is Foswell, huh? Where, dammit?! And I thought I told someone to have that Raftgate piece on today’s paper?!”

_That must be Jameson_, she thought.

“That was Foswell’s editorial, sir.” Someone said shakily.

“I didn’t ask you! Sweet Jesus, what am I running here? Shield Rock's post office? Y’all as slow as fuck! My grandma could outrun you, and she’s dead!” A door slammed with an apocalyptic boom, like a nuclear bomb making impact. The sound seemed to shake the building's entire foundation and the small group of people quivered in their seats, except for a man in the yellow shirt who calmly stood by the window as if the tirade had not perturbed him in the slightest. He only looked exhausted, as if he’s been over this for an eternity.

Karen nervously swallowed the lump in her throat and walked to the door. The words Editor-in-Chief were in a bold Droid Serif font, with the letters o and r missing in editor. She knocked twice.

“Come in!” Jameson bellowed from the inside. She struggled to open the door and the man by the window walked away from his position to her direction. He gave it a firm tug outwards and the door gave away. She whispered a ‘thank you and he smiled warmly at her.

Jameson's office was simply a mess. The cabinets were overflowing with files, papers haphazardly placed in heaps on the floor, staplers, pencils, a cup of coffee and sticky notes all in random positions on the table. There were newspaper clippings and editorials framed on the wall along with old photos, a couple of awards on the shelf and a giant stuffed panda in a corner. An honest to God panda.

“The fuck are you?”

Jonah Jameson is a tall wiry man with a long face, a flat top haircut, very gray temples and excessive wrinkle lines on his forehead, the result of scowling more than absolutely necessary she assumes. His hawkish nose is red as his nostrils flare in rage, beady blue eyes shining with something non-fathomable. He had been in the process of lighting a cigarette so the offending item is still in between his teeth, seemingly welded together by sheer will alone.

“Karen Page, the New York Bulletin.” She sticks out her hand for him to shake.

He ignores it and harrumphs, “Ben’s associate, right. Sit down, Miss Page.”

She complies and gingerly sets herself down on the ancient, creaky chair. “I’m a little late—”

“—gave me time to yell at those good-for-nothing fuckers.”

She is unfazed by his vulgar choice of words. She’s heard worse. “Of course,” she murmurs instead.

“So Mitchell told me of your, uh, predicament. ESU alumni, right? Been there myself. So good stuff, mostly.” Jonah taps all his ten fingers against each other, cigarette long thrown in the bin. “Decent track record, moved around a lot, and is now on the journey of self discovery.”

Karen furrowed her brows. “Self discovery?”

“Usually, when you lose someone or something important you take a trip, literally or figuratively, to find what your life truly entails — what else do you think it’s called?” he demands.

“I don’t know, sir.”

Jonah grimaced and grunted, then waved a hand in no general direction. “Miss Page, this agency is an old and rusty machine, but it does its work, everyday and without fail. I know what you city folk think — we write about who married who and who had a baby. Fuck no. This town is as boring as every other town but we do news, alright. We work hard. So you better give it your all — nobody forced you to be here. You get me?”

“Yes, sir.”

He took another cigarette. “Large man in yellow shirt, that’s the other Editor, Robbie. Good guy. He’ll show you around. And my PA, she’ll give you the necessary documents to sign. Now get out of here,”

_That was climatic_, she thought and rose to leave.

“And Miss Page? Don’t get big-headed. You’re not ready to take any type of reins in here, you hear?”

Bold of him to assume she had reins over anything, least of all how to handle them.

_-Line Break-_

“..._Marville County should expect a rise in temperature from the 14__th__ through the 16__th__, with a sudden drop on the 17__th__ when the temperature will be below 19__°__C..._”

Tony turned his attention from the TV and to his buzzing phone. More emails, none of which he had the desire to read. He had more important things, heck, more than important things to worry about. He turned to Harley.

“You excited about the match today, buddy? Everyone’s gonna be there.”

“Yep,” the boy answered monotonously.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

A non-committal shrug. Tony sighs and tiredly rubs a hand over his face. He knew exactly what was wrong. Peter would hopefully be home tonight by seven. This was going to change everyone’s lives in this house, for the better. His family would be under _one_ roof. And it wasn’t hard to know why Harley would be insecure; a brother he’d never met but only heard of, one that seemed to have a special place in Tony’s heart. Of course the man knew that wasn’t true, he loved all his children equally.

“Will Peter like us, Daddy?” Morgan asks innocently and Pepper cleans the milk moustache off the girl’s face.

“I’m sure he will, sweetheart.” The woman tells her.

“Does he like hide and seek?”

“Why don’t you wait for him to come home, then you can ask him? Now, go fetch your bag, you’ll be late for school.” Tony says to her and ruffles her hair. The girl obeys and her little legs dash upstairs.

"What about you, Harley? You excited? You've always wanted a brother."

Pepper's attempt fails as the boy gives another shrug. 

"I'm full." With that, he leaves the breakfast table without another table.

Tony knew it was hard. Ever since Harley had gotten curious about his parentage, they hadn't tried to hide anything from him. He knew the boy's world seemed like it was crashing down; to know you're adopted and have two other kids who are actually biologically related to your parents could be stressful and Tony didn't want him to feel like he was being abandoned.

As for Peter, the inventor didn't know where he'd start. They'd seen each other more than a couple of times, but in the darkest depths of his mind a voice told him Peter would always know him as the father who apparently loved him very much but not enough to stay by his side all these years, until now. They weren't as close as a father and son should be (who would've thought long-distance relationships are hard to maintain?) and he wondered if he could fix all his mistakes or magically fill in the gap that he had left all those years ago. But if he did, he wouldn't have Pepper or Harley and Morgan. And for them, Peter had been alone.

How was he going to take the reins after everything? The thought was too maddening so he took his phone and read his emails. He was staving off the inevitable confrontation about to take place in no less than ten hours, and he was too cowardly to try to find a solution that wouldn't hurt both of them - he and Peter.

**Author's Note:**

> what did you think?


End file.
